


Galimaufrey

by redjaded (timeheist)



Series: The Redjay [14]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/redjaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallifrey falls no more, Time Lords are genderfluid, and an anti-xenophobic murderer is on the loose. The twenty first century might have been where everything changed, but Rodageitmososa wasn't ready.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during Roda's 7th and 8th regenerations, and takes place after 'Timely Lovers'. Alexander 'the Seeker' Saxon and 'The Twins' belong to elisi. The prologue contains a brief introduction to Torchwood's place in my 'verse, written from Jack's POV and their most recent case, but the two linked stories that follow will be told from Roda's POV.

For anyone with any kind of military history, twenty second century Earth clubs were a strategic nightmare. The average club was at least three stories high, with the facilities to purchase almost every chemical poison that took your fancy, and then some that didn't. They were a breeding pool for every sin that the planet had learned so far, and with the last century's influx of aliens, they were learning more. Of course, if you were a time traveller, you knew that it was only another decade or so until some sort of sense was knocked into people and the human race started to perfect its poisons, inventing some of the best in the universe. Hell, Captain Jack Harkness knew that better than anyone – there was a reason that so many Time Agents stayed in the Milky Way, by the forty first century, by which time that perfection was an addiction, and security was sky high but for now? With little security, too many chemicals and the human race only just becoming self aware (and largely xenophobic, as humans often were) about its planetary neighbours? It was the perfect blind spot for extra-terrestrial crimes to go uninhibited, unnoticed, and unpunished.

Roda, Jack knew, knew that too; he'd always suspected it was part of the reason she'd stayed with Torchwood for so long (other than the sex (if he was less modest, which of course, he wasn't)). Even without the hints that the Master had dropped while she was seeing the Seeker - and the trouble that his latest 'descendant of Harold Saxon (yes, the Harold Saxon!)' had caused - any time traveller who'd paid attention in history knew that his own mantra, 'the twenty first century was where everything changed', more than hit the nail on the head. In the last hundred years, planet Earth had embraced the extra-terrestrial, legislated them, curfewed them and finally begun to warm to them. Or at least, Europe had; the US (with the exception of Canada) had been less accepting, quicker to judge, and parts of Asia and Africa had been quick to assume superstitious stigma. The fact was that Earth was willing to accept that there was life on other planets, but not willing to accept that it might be different to, or better than, them. The quicker you 'passed' for human, the safer you were. Anti-discrimination laws tended to include aliens, too, these days. Roda herself still played human, largely from necessity and somewhat from the privilege, but knew Michael (being a very much green (and very much attractive) homo reptilian) was more open about his species, and some of the Seeker's university friends had come out of the closet, as it were. Right now, Torchwood was more important than ever, and as the years went on, Jack had both relished the chance to be at the heart of it all, and hated it.

Torchwood still worked outside the police. The public knew they existed - it had been impossible to hide after the 456 affair - but at least Jack had been able to pull enough strings to convince the British Government that it was in their best interests to 'leak' that the department had been 'disgracefully disbanded'. Officially, they no longer existed, and the public was free to read the paperwork. Sure, it made Torchwood look bad, but that only let them do their work. More than half of the Cardiff cell's members were aliens with a vested interest in strengthening extra-terrestrial relations in the long run and if that meant hushing up alien involvement in crimes, taking the law into their own hands or offering asylum and witness protection to the ones that had been wronged or needed it (after a quick vetoing procedure, naturally), then that was what they did their best to do. Doing so undercover was how Jack and Roda (effectively his second in command for more than a century now) liked it. But it also meant that they had to keep an eye on the bad, as well as the good, and the last month had kept them well and truly on their toes.

Eight seemingly simple murders with no motive, no apparent link between the victims and no suspects... But at least they had clues: all the murders had happened at clubs that refused entry to aliens, so-called 'elite human clubs', and all the victims had been human. And naturally, according to Torchwood's latest recruit Lidewij, a middle-aged programmer from Holland now working at a Welsh university, everyone had missed a link. It had even taken her and the human/arcateenian hybrids that everyone just called 'the Twins' - grandchildren of friends of the Seeker's - weeks to work out that each of the victims frequented anti-alien forums and rallies. From there, they'd scanned security feeds and government documents looking for likely suspects, while Roda and Jack had done the dirty work asking questions and 'getting evidence', before their medic, Michael, up to his elbows in autopsies, suspected they had a metamorph on their hands They'd been on the brink of what could almost be called an epiphany when Roda had been called away by a strange message from the Doctor and of course with one field agent, the whole thing had gone FUBAR within a couple of hours. Their alien had gotten cocky, threatening their victim online, and a trace of their ISP had confirmed the worst; the murderer was a chameleon living in their own protection program under the name of Guinevere Madfall.

With no time to spare, Jack had called Roda for backup and hopped in the SUV without thinking twice that she might have problems of her own...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Home is where one starts from."_  
>  \- T. S. Elliot

It had been a busy few weeks on Earth. Eight people dead and Skaro only knew how many others before they managed to find their killer. It wasn't as though she'd not seen a dead body before (certainly not working for Torchwood) but it was never pleasant, and they hadn't exactly been clean deaths. At least with strangers, when you had no responsibility, if you saw something on TV... you could detach yourself. But Torchwood had a responsibility to the people of Earth and being so helpless to protect them, well... it was familiar. The Time War, the Year That Never Was, she'd been there before. 

But there'd been a hundred and one other little things to do on top of their murder mystery, and she hadn't had more than half an hour's rest in more than a week. Not that she'd told Jack; he'd only insist that she try and get some sleep and knowing him, he'd win the argument. Michael probably knew, but he hadn't said anything. She'd been spending her nights in the hub, and her days following up leads with Jack while Lidewij and the Twins worked miracles with call traces and ISPs and whatever else it was they did. Computers weren't Roda's strong point, she and Jack were the field team. And by her fourth flask of coffee, they'd been on the brink of a breakthrough when her phone had rang.

There were no more people to speak to, no more questions to ask. She'd made her excuses, promised to be back as soon as possible, and headed for the Medusa Cascade. She hated leaving a job half done but the Doctor had been breathless, excited or scared, she couldn't tell. He'd told her to come – and quickly – and had hung up before she'd been able to ask any questions (the phone on his TARDIS had taken so many dips in swimming pools and the vortex that she was amazed it even worked any more). When Jack had heard who it was he'd practically kicked her out of the hub himself. All wound up and deprived of sleep, Roda hadn't needed telling twice.

But when she finally got there and 'parked' her TARDIS in front of the Doctor's over the glorious, glittering endless space, and the Doctor had swung open his doors to meet her, she hadn't known what to expect. It certainly hadn't been a maniacally grinning Time Lord clutching a book.

“Doctor, are you okay?”

“Okay? I'm more than okay! I'm very okay.”

Roda blinked, attempting to usher the excited, dishevelled-looking Time Lord back inside his TARDIS so that she could follow him in. The Doctor, flapping his arms, could not be easily herded; he was talking so fast that Roda could barely understand him. His eyes were wide, and he was clearly worked up. She stared at him, standing on the threshold of her red phonebox TARDIS and the Medusa Cascade (last time she'd come here, it had been very different. It wasn't a day she cared to think about), her mind half on him and half on the murder investigation she'd left behind on Earth. She'd met him expecting trouble and now...

“Where's Clara?”

“Sleeping. We've had a long day, my Impossible Girl and I. But we've okay.” The Doctor took a deep breath, and looked Roda straight in the eye, still manic but very, very serious. “We're all okay... I know where I'm going now.”

“I, uh...” Roda raised both her eyebrows and her shoulders, palms held outstretched in question. She looked at his console, pulsing gently, and back at the Doctor, taking a deep breath of her own and grasping at straws. She reached for his arm, stifling a yawn, and gently turned him around, stepping carefully from TARDIS to TARDIS and shutting both doors behind her. “...Where are you going? Earth?”

“Home, Roda!” The Doctor frowned slightly, as though Roda was a child who had failed to grasp the point of his lecture. It was a look she knew well, and she couldn't help but frown back. “The long way 'round.”

“I... see.”

Looking over her shoulder, Roda folded her arms across her chest. So there was no emergency, there was no disaster. She wasn't sure if Jack would be more relieved or more irritated. She tilted her head to one side, a smirk playing at her features. For some reason the situation, now that she knew there was one less thing for her to worry about, seemed hilarious. Letting go of the Doctor's arm, she tilted her head to one side, trying to read the cover of the book in his hands. It seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn't put a finger on it. A little smaller than A4, slim, and red.

“Are you drunk?”

The Doctor all but stamped his feet. “No!”

“But,” Roda ran a hand through her hair, “home? What do you mean, your TARDIS?”

“Gallifrey, Roda.”

Roda's head snapped up, her eyes wide. The switch from worry, to relief, and back again was almost dizzying. She must have misheard – or was he regenerating?

“Are you – are you hurt?”

Roda reached out for the Doctor, patting him down and frantically looking for injuries. A head injury, a concussion, something to explain the sudden madness and not confirm a... fear. An understanding suddenly bubbling up inside her that the Doctor was much more lucid than he sounded. After all, there'd been that sorry mess with Rassilon and the white point star that one time (she'd called the Shadow Proclamation and run, she wasn't too ashamed to say) and the Doctor had been gone a long time, even by their standards of communication. She hadn't seen him since she'd broken up with the Seeker, back on the Dalek crucible. Could it be that he actually planned on going to Gallifrey and that it was possible, or was he simply hallucinating? And why did that make both her hearts stop?

The last thing Roda had been expecting – hoping – was for the Doctor to start... laughing. She opened and shut her mouth, reluctant to say anything more until he gave her a proper answer.

“Roda, I'm fine, just” the Doctor caught his breath, grinning in a way that had always been so contagious before, “listen to me.”

He took another deep breath, practically vibrating with... was that excitement? Gathering himself, the Doctor turned the book he'd been grasping over in his hands before holding it out to Roda proudly. She took it with a confused frown and her hearts sank.

 _Gallifreyan History 101 – a Syllabus for the Prydonian Chapter_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We'll still live in silence like sworn threats of violence_  
>  _I long for an end and it's coming 'round the bend_  
>  _If we live through this night and we'd still be all right_  
>  _We'd flee to Siam or a bar in Amsterdam._  
>  \- A Bar in Amsterdam, Katzenjammer

Oh, Rassilon... he really meant it.

  
“I-”  
  
“I saved them, Roda. I didn't do it!”  
  
Roda swallowed, the knuckles of both hands turning white as she gripped the sides of the textbook. She stared at the gold embossed words for a second longer before staring back at the Doctor, dreading the question she was about to ask.  
  
“...Didn't do what?”  
  
“The Time War Roda. I – all thirteen of me-” she blinked, “we found a way not to kill them all.”  
  
The Doctor launched into a long monologue, telling a story that was so impossible that it could only be true. Three Doctors, working together? A regeneration she'd never even heard of before? She remembered the Council, how in the last days of the Time War, before she and her company had been captured by the Daleks, they'd been in disarray, certain that the war was lost. They'd told the soldiers but they hadn't told the civilians. Arcadia fell, and she'd seen it fall. But she'd never known that the Doctor had been there too, or that he'd...  
  
“That's...”  
  
“It's amazing! Gallifrey is out there somewhere!”  
  
The Doctor grinned, oblivious to Roda's discomfort. All those people, once trapped, now simply... lost, somewhere. Maybe life had gone on without them all these years in a pocket universe (she vaguely recalled childhood stories told to scare children about Omega's universe). She'd been so close to closure and now hope was nothing short of heartsbreaking. The Doctor's news should have been the greatest news of her life but instead, it was her worst nightmare. Had Gallifrey been trapped all this time, or had it just existed somewhere, lost in the universe, going on without them? What about the civilians, the innocents of the War? What if the Daleks had found them first? What if Wick, all this time...  
  
“We're not the last ones left!”  
  
“Exactly!”  
  
There was a pause of confusion, and then both Time Lords started talking at the same time, each as passionate as the other.  
  
“We can go find Gallifrey, bring our people back, end the War peacefully –”  
  
“We'll have to answer to the Council, not to mention look Rassilon – or whoever the President is now – in the eye...!”  
  
The Doctor's excitement trailed off, to be replaced by confusion. He scowled in thought, pursing his lips before continuing a little more quietly. Roda swallowed hard, but listened.  
  
“Roda, the Time War is over now. The daleks have no idea and besides you saw what Al... the Seeker did.” The Doctor's eyes darkened, and he reached out to grip Roda's shoulders. This clearly wasn't how he'd expected the conversation to go. “You're not a deserter,” he assured Roda with a smile, making the wrong assumptions, “you just got lucky. We all did. We all got lucky. All of Gallifrey.” The Doctor started gesturing wildly again, reaching another rehearsed part of his speech. As he swung his arms back he nearly knocked Roda, who staggered to regain her balance, still gripping the text book as though she hoped she was imagining everything. “This is the biggest,” he grinned excitedly, “second chance that the universe has ever given anyone! Ever!”  
  
Roda snorted, cynical. “And what if we screw it up again?”  
  
Roda hated herself. Gallifrey, their childhood, their home, might not be lost (there was still a chance the Doctor was wrong) and all she could think about was what the 'Lords' would think. Her own survival. The lives of millions saved, a chance to see Mount Perdition again, it was too glorious for words, but what about everything else? She loved Gallifrey as much as the Doctor did, but they both loved a different planet. The Doctor's Gallifrey was saved but Roda felt as though hers had died long ago. Rassilon had fought a war with the Pythia before she was born, and a radical new era of Gallifrey had begun. What was going to happen after this war?  
  
“We're Time Lords, Roda, not idiots.”  
  
Under her breath, Roda muttered “they're the same thing”, as the Doctor continued.  
  
“And even if we do make mistakes, Gallifrey could have been in that pocket universe long enough to learn from them, for all we know. I know I've changed since the War, you've changed,” Roda opened her mouth, but found that was one point she couldn't argue with, “and you and I, we've both got new faces, we're new people. We can start over, too.”  
  
Roda found herself wanting to throw the textbook at the Doctor and put it down on the console beside them, perhaps a little too hard. She took a deep breath in, and out, and did so again, clenching one fist within the other and trying to find words.  
  
“And what exactly do you propose we build these new opportunities on? Our past experiences?”  
  
“Now, Roda, we're not all that bad...!”  
  
  
“Doctor, you're...” Exasperated, Roda covered her face with her hands, and massaged her temples. “You're the Golden Boy of Gallifrey. 'Renegade' sounds a lot nicer than 'exile', don't you think?” She snorted, and pinched the bridge of her nose with both hands. “You were pretty much pardoned, back when you had that... bowler hat and waistcoat look. Seventh?” The Doctor nodded slowly. “You were the Lord President, for Rassilon's sake!”  
  
“You know as well as I that-”  
  
“Yes. You resigned,” she sighed exaggeratedly, “I know that, you know that, but they let you. Be the President and resign. Without repurcussion!”  
  
The Doctor's cheeks reddened, and he stammered as he protested.  
  
“Well, not totally without-”  
  
“No, listen.” Roda's voice shook. She could tell her original point was derailing, but fear and unease were taking over. “More often than not, you made a good impression. What about me? Gallifrey's oldest rebel, condemned by the founder of our society himself!”  
  
“That was a millen-”  
  
“And what about the Seeker? You really haven't thought this through, if you think everything'll be the same again without a hitch.” Though she noticed the Doctor's flinch, Roda kept talking, stepping forward and raising an almost accusatory hand. The time for comforting him would be later, even if he got angry. “Half human, half Time Lord – well, that's going to look good when he returns, isn't it? Not to mention River, Jack...”  
  
The Doctor half-pouted. “Now, really-”  
  
“And what about the Master?”  
  
“You don't-”  
  
“No, I don't.” Roda nodded, still heated up. “But frankly, you know as well as I do what kind of trouble he'd be in if the Council got a hold of him, and that prejudice would make it even harder for the Seeker! And then there's the shobogans, the non-Gallifreyans. It's all good and well to start anew if you're the social elite but if you're not a Lord or Lady of Time then Gallifrey won't give you so much as a by your leave!”  
  
For the first time in their argument the Doctor stepped forward, a flash in his eyes that Roda had never seen before. Despite herself Roda took a step back in turn, both hands clenched into fists, but the Doctor still approached.  
  
“That isn't fair...!”  
  
“Fair!?” He narrowed his eyes, and it was Roda's turn to laugh. “It never was! What about Wick?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
The flash of pain on Roda's face, white like fire, was enough to stop the Doctor's approach mid-step. He stared at her curiously, through angry eyes, watching as Roda bit her lip so hard that it bled before finally shaking her head and turning sharply away.  
  
“It doesn't matter, not anymore. And besides,” she swallowed, “Even if Gallifrey does write off what we've done while it's been gone, what about the rest of the universe?” The Doctor opened his mouth and raised a hand, and yet again Roda spoke over him. “The universe has done fine without the Time Lords all this time. Who's to say Gallifrey has a place in it anymore, or that they deserve to?”  
  
Roda didn't know what to think, what to say. The argument, the prospect of her amnesty in the universe breaking, the killer back in Cardiff, it had taken so much out of her that she couldn't think straight any more. She could feel the rage boiling up inside her, knew that all the things she'd said to the Doctor had blurred together, the worries of hundreds of years and experiences coming out in one snapping match with little to no coherency to them. The Doctor's words made sense, she wanted so much to agree with him, but she couldn't. And with no idea what to do she retreated into herself, letting the Doctor rant, and preach, taking his audience's silence as a good sign.  
  
When her phone finally rang, Roda couldn't have answered the interruption faster.  
  
“Roda, you there? It's me.”  
  
“Jack.” Roda closed her eyes tight, “What's up?”  
  
“Is the Doc okay?”  
  
“He...” Roda faltered, and closed her eyes with an exhausted sigh.” Yeah. False alarm.”  
  
“Good.” Jack was either oblivious to Roda's discomfort, or ignoring it. It was hard to tell when he was Captain I-lead-an-iron-team Harkness. There were two types of 'job' in Torchwood, as much as their were two Jacks. Heartbreaking, difficult business, like the one they were on now, and well-that-was-exhillerating-let's-get-laid-and-forget-all-about-it. “'Cause we've got a lead. I'm in the SUV, Lidewij is patching you coordinates.”  
  
“I'm on my way.”  
  
Under better circumstances, Roda would have made some kind of joke. No rest for the wicked, or something like that. And she felt she ought've resented being summoned like some kind of valet. But as she slipped her phone into her pocket (she'd taken to dressing less, as the Seeker had once put it, 'steampunk', in the last half century, with the added bonus that her trousers now had pockets and the con that being made for women, they were apparently substandard ones) and turned her back to the Doctor, she mused that these could hardly have been worse circumstances. She just wanted to get out of dodge and figure everything out. Take something for a good night's sleep, maybe. And thankfully, any excuse to avoid staying in the Doctor's TARDIS a minute longer couldn't have come sooner.  
  
They'd disagreed before, but this? It was the last time they'd met in the Medusa Cascade all over again except this time, someone else was the catalyst. Roda wasn't quite sure which one of them was in the 'wrong', if there was a 'wrong' to be in. She and the Doctor might have agreed that the salvation of Galifrey was (in the simplest sense) 'a good thing' but if they couldn't compromise on the minutiae, their friendship was going to change. Just like the whole dynamic around the Seeker's 'family' had come crashing down around their feet. This was yet another game-changer, but this time, with a smaller audience to decide. No Jack, no Seeker, no Clara, River, Master and crucible full of daleks.  
  
...She supposed she owed the Seeker something of an apology, now, when everything calmed down again.  
  
“Roda, just wait a min-!”  
  
The Doctor reached out, crestfallen. He looked as though he hoped she was simply sulking, or that their was something he could say that would magically fix things. Ordinarily Roda hated to see that look on his face, and would have hated more to be the one who put it on a friend's face. It had always meant so much to him that the last of Gallifrey could co-exist and now that she knew the full story of his time during the war, she could see why. He'd been through so much, had thought he was sacrificing everything and to see that fragile victory of having just a little bit of his home left and watching it fall apart...  
  
But all of that was nothing more than a fool's ideal – he knew them all. They all loved him in their own ways, but it would take a lot before they all loved each other – and right now, Roda couldn't share his celebration. If he needed someone to hold his hand and congratulate him on his second chances, then she sure as Skaro wasn't going to be that person.  
  
“Can't, Doctor.” Shaking her head, Roda barely paused as she swung open the doors to both TARDISes. The Medusa Cascade, so beautiful before, now seemed like a gaping chasm. If she fell, it seemed as though she would never stop. “We've been chasing this for weeks. Jack needs me, now.”  
  
“You've got a time machine,” the Doctor pointed out imploringly, “I've got a time machine. We can talk this through.”  
  
“No we can't, Doctor. Not right now.” His outstretched palm fell to his side. Roda crossed from TARDIS to TARDIS in one undignified step. “Gallifrey doesn't solve anything. It can't even solve it's own problems. I'm sorry.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose._  
>  \- Zora Neale Hurston

The doors slammed shut behind her and Roda slumped against the wall for just a second before breaking into a run. Her fingertips slurred across the console as she threw the TARDIS into reverse. A quick glance at the text from Lidewij gave her a time and a place to lock onto. Cloud Nine, a club in one of Cardiff's more tourist-saturated areas. Damn, that was just what Roda needed right now, crowds of people. All the other murders had been relatively isolated... Her body felt heavy and lagging as she brought the information up on one of the monitors that hung from the roof, surrounding her console. It swung towards her and Roda skimmed the High Gallifreyan that scrolling quickly over the screen, taking in as much about the club as she could.

At least it had only been a few hours since she'd left, by Torchwood's clock, if not more than half an hour by her own. It was nearly half ten, people would still be streaming into the club, already tipsy. It can't have been open for long, and they still had a chance of getting there before their killer. Or so she assumed; Jack had said they had a lead, not a body. Roda could only hope that it meant her detour to argue with the Doctor hadn't lost them the case, even if Jack had urged her to go...

Skaro, she had to snap out of it. She didn't have time to feel sorry for herself. Jack needed her; Michael and Lidewij weren't field agents, not in the least bit. Jack needed her, that was important. Jack grounded her, Jack had never asked too much of her, and Jack... well, he was complicated, but in a familiar way. Damn it, for him, she could hold it all together just a little while longer. Worrying about Gallifrey, putting her mess of thoughts into one coherent line, could wait.

The TARDIS stuttered to a halt. The brakes needed some work, soon, she thought absently. They could wait, too. Roda reached under the console, tossing her phone to the back of a small cubby hole and pulling out a radio and earpiece, where she'd stowed them on her way to the Doctor's TARDIS. She groped around for her revolver once the earpiece was properly in place, quietly cringing. It was an antique, an eighteenth century piece that was an absolute beauty, but as far as Jack was concerned, a liability. He'd been trying to convince her to get something with more shots per round for years; Roda had only argued that it wasn't the number of times you fired your gun that mattered, but how true your aim was. Jack had smirked.

As she holstered the revolver into place, she grabbed her coat from a hook on the other side of the console. It was some sort of ladies-fit trench coat, a Christmas gift from Torchwood's medic before Michael, a pretty little graduate with a crush on her that they'd had to retcon. It wouldn't do much for the cold but it was waterproof, and better than the thin, red casual shirt and jeans she'd thrown on when she'd half fell out of the shower earlier on. A quick look out the door of the TARDIS confirmed the worst; it was raining heavily, just like it had been threatening to do all week. Leaving the coat unbuttoned Roda tucked the key to her TARDIS and the Seeker's planet down her shirt, threw her hood up, and adjusted her radio earpiece before shouting into the noise of the wind and massing, queueing club-goers as she stepped into the car park.

“Jack? Where are you?”

There was a sort of muffled sound, following by the high-pitched laughter of nearby girls who sounded barely legal, before Jack replied.

“-da? Roda, are you there?”

Roda nodded to herself, walking briskly towards the door of the club. It was a nine-storey, luminous behemoth that seemed to light up the whole street. It was on the corner of another adjacent street, and had a darkened alleyway running around the back of it. Roda could just make out the shape of a black SUV – Jack was a creature of habit – tucked behind an enormous bin, and wondered if Jack had driven himself, or Michael had. The silurian had just gotten his license and was justly proud of the fact that he now got to legally break the speed limit.

“I'm here. Where are you?”

“Front and centre.” Jack's words were joking, but his voice was tense. Roda looked around for him until her gaze settled on a heavy-clad, great-coated arm waving at her from near the door. “Can you make it?”

“You underestimate me.”

The rapport between them came easily, but Roda was just as tense as Jack sounded. She undid the top few buttons of her shirt and started to weave through the crowd, offering apologies and cleavage where she had to. As she neared Jack the bouncer scowled, pulling out what looked to be a taser from his belt, until Jack reached out to smack his arse, hard.

“Easy tiger, she's with me.”

Roda took advantage of the bouncer making eyes at Jack to slip under the barrier and take her place in the queue. A few people behind them took interest, wondering if she was famous, or rich, why she'd been let in front of everyone else, before losing interest and returning to their pre-club vices.

“Sure.” The bouncer looked Jack up and down appreciatively, ignoring his colleague, rolling his eyes at him from the other side of the queue. “But no cutting in line next time, alright?”

“Maybe I'll just come with you next time and save myself the trouble!”

Jack wrapped an arm over Roda's shoulders, winking at the bouncer. But his easy smile faded as he turned his full attention to his partner and lowered his voice, flicking his gaze every few seconds towards the door, willing the queue to move faster. As they finally made their way into the first floor of the club the mob shielded thier conversation from prying ears. They were just another couple at the club who couldn't take their eyes off each other, who just so happened to have smuggled in firearms and retcon. It didn't exactly inspire confidence in finding thier killer before they found their next victim.

“Why are we in a club?”

“Lidewij found someone – online handle's G-bitch or something like that – bragging about ridding the world of, and I quote, 'another bastard anti-xeno scumbag'.” Roda blinked. “Yeah. Since there's not exactly been a well of murder mysteries going around Cardiff, we reckoned our pre-drinking killer slipped up at last.”

“So who are they?”

“Dunno.” Jack frowned. “Lidewij and some of her interns are trying to track te ISP – she's passing it off as extra-credit – but they're not having any luck. But we found something else out. Remember you found that surveillance feed of the last victim handing out missing person flyers just before their time of death?” Roda nodded, accepting a drink from a passing waiter that seemed to pulse in time with the music. “Lidewij ran with it, turns out every victim had a missing friend or relative. Michael's been saying from the get-go that their wounds show no sign of a struggle, so it was probably someone they know, and since no one had any friends or relatives in common...”

“So Michael was right, definitely a metamorph.” Roda downed her drink in one long gulp. “One that mimics. Probably not a slitheen, no methane. Probably not kimbra chimeras, they don't get clothes right...” She tapped the stem of her glass, glad for an excuse to think about something impersonal. “That Cell 114 you mentioned?”

“Not their MO.”

Roda clucked. “Damn. Might be an aubertide – they have to eat anything they mimic, could explain the missing people but they're not very intelligent...”

Jack pursed his lips, and using Roda as a shield, touched his fingertip to his ear. “Lidewij, how's that search going?”

“ _Slecht_.” Lidewij Cloet was an aging Dutch woman with a strong accent, who Roda couldn't imagine anywhere but behind a computer monitor. She wore her hair short, what fringe she had neatly pinned off her face and needed someone's arm to take anything but the 'back door' into the Hub. She wasn't very mobile, but working for Torchwood and lecturing at the university weren't particularly taxing activities, and she was one of Britain's brightest programmers. “There's a lot of metamorphs in Britain, but most of them have pretty good, ah... _getuigen_.”

“Alibis?” Mouthed Roda, listening in, and Jack repeated it.

“ _Ja_ , alibis. Are you wearing the Eye-5?”

The Eye-5 contact lenses were a piece of alien technology that Jack explained they had first used back when Suzie was around. Ianto and Jack had often used them in bed, which Roda had always felt was either the best or worst way to treat technology that came through the rift from a distant moon. They transmitted images from a person's eye to a computer, could fake a retinal scan, and hooked up to the wifi. They were a fantastic asset to any mission, but horribly uncomfortable; they used them as little as they could.

Jack nodded. “For my sins.”

“Good. Keep scanning faces, I'll cross-reference them with the missing person's register.

“Sounds good. Michael?”

“Boss?”

Roda heard a third voice join the conversation, glancing around. There were club-goers pointing at them, wondering why they were behaving so strangely. She nudged Jack in the ribs, subtly pointing them out, and he cut his instructions short.

“Keep the SUV ready, we might have to move fast.” Jack grabbed Roda's wrist as he ended the conversation, pulling her into the middle of the crowded dance floor with minimal complaint and holding her close to his body, blending in once more. The prying eyes turned away, satisfied, and Jack whispered in Roda's ear. “There's nine floors to scan. Keep an eye out for anything funny and I'll try and flirt with as many people as I can.”

Roda smirked, a real smile finally breaking through her unease. “How come you always get the easy jobs?”

“Because I'm the prettiest.”

With a wink and a smirk Jack pulled away from Roda, merging seamlessly with the milling crowd. Within a matter of minutes the DJ had set up and Roda could barely hear herself think, let alone hear a word that anybody was saying. She swayed with the music, suddenly feeling swelteringly hot in her jacket, but she needed it to hide her revolver (she hadn't gotten quite as good at finding other hiding spots as Jack had, quote yet), keeping one eye on Jack. When they made eye contact they moved up too the second floor from other sides of the room, beginning their ritual again. Roda was just starting to forget that there were any problems outside of Cloud Nine when all hell broke loose.

She and Jack would both recognize gunshot anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dutch - English Dictionary:**  
>  Slecht - Badly  
> Getuigen- Witnesses  
> Ja - Yes  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting.”_  
>  \- Frank Herbert, _Dune_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter... wasn't originally going to be a 2-parter, but it was stressing me out and then a cliffhanger suggested itself. It was written listening to [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkt8tRnH0yk), which will make sense... I hope.
> 
>  **Warning:** This chapter contains strong languages and scenes of extreme violence. Think more Torchwood, less Doctor Who.

For more than half her life, Roda had been claustrophobic. It had been her second regeneration, or maybe her third, that she'd drowned. Second, definitely the second. She'd been full of anger and ambition, certain that nothing could stop her ever again. The Time Agency hadn't managed to stop her, Gallifrey hadn't managed to stop her (they'd exiled her, but that was their loss. In hindsight, Roda supposed the shock had still been fresh, the ramifications of what had happened to her not sinking in until she regenerated again) and she was on top of the world. Free. And then she'd slipped up again, and had learned the hard way that slipping up was what people did.

The metallic clothes she'd worn, straight from a particularly technological planet somewhere in the Pleiades Cluster, had been too much for the quasi-medieval times of the near Earth planet she'd landed on to refuel. The TARDIS appearing out of nowhere hadn't helped, either, and a witch was, apparently, a witch. She could still remember the stone of the well closing in on her, the weights on her ankles pulling her down as she clawed at the walls and tried to hold the air in her lungs. Even her respiratory bypass had failed her, she'd been too scared to think. When the townsfolk had pulled her new body out of the well it had been all she could do to fight her way back to the TARDIS and get away before they tried to do it again.

It was times like this, not only trapped inside a tightly-packed room full of strangers, but trapped in a tightly-packed room full of panicked strangers and a violent murderer, that she remembered why. A lot of the time she could put her discomfort to the back of her mind and get the job done, but with people pushing on her from all four sides, any one of whom could be the armed alien they were looking for, it was almost impossible. For all her attempts to put the conversation she'd just had with the Doctor behind her, she wasn't at the top of her game.

Roda had never baulked from a fight, but this was chaos, and with the memories so raw, it reminded her of the war. The people of Arcadia, defenseless and panicked as the Daleks swooped in like birds of prey... The sooner they got their target, and got the hell out of Cloud 9, as far as Roda was concerned, the better.

She couldn't see Jack, she could barely move for the throng of people, and her revolver was pinned against her hip, a useless block of metal digging into the skin. With any luck, the metamorph's was, too. She hadn't heard any more gun shot (over the shouting and screaming) but that might just mean that the person they'd come here to save was dead and the alien just didn't care any more. Pushing against the mobbing people – all desperate to reach the door first, and drunk on any number of substances – was almost impossible. A single body trying to move in the opposite direction to an entire flood had almost no chance.

Somewhere, Jack was doing the same thing; every now and then, Roda was sure she could hear his voice, the occasional 'stop!' or 'move!'. She grabbed shoulders, using the momentum to pull herself forward, looking for someone trying too hard to blend in, someone holding anything other than a glass or stick or bag of powder. Her eyes darted left and right as she pushed, as she-

Roda hit the ground with a thump, rolling out of the way of a stampede of under-age students, faces ashen, just in time. She shook her head, using the relative emptiness of the cold, hard dancefloor to wriggle her gun out of its holster, trusting in it to disperse the crowd around her as she threw herself back to her feet past a fluorescent mini-skirt. It was then that she caught sight of them. A tall redhead, short hair, not unlike one of her own past regenerations. They were dressed in jeans and a shirt, nothing skimpy, nothing fancy, almost as though they'd come to the club as an afterthought. Something was held tight against their chest, and though they were moving with the crowd, right at the back of the exodus, they seemed... too calm.

Gritting her teeth, Roda started to hurry, certain that she hadn't been noticed yet, close, so close to the door to the stairwell that the suspect had presumably just come down. As she closed the gap between herself and the potential killer she put her shoulder forward, digging it into the redhead's chest and toppling them both backwards and out of the crowd.

For the second time in five minutes Roda hit the ground with a crash, and several other people. There wasn't time for finesse. She landed on her side, half on top of the redhead – a woman, or at least, physically a female human – and out of the corner of her eye saw the ominous circle of red and shattered glass in the shadows. It was hard to tell whether the victim was male or female when half their face was missing, and she hadn't thought to ask Jack, damn it. This close, she could see the dilated pupils of the woman she'd tackled to the ground, and smell the stench of alcohol on their breath. That explained why the scene was so much less gruesome than the other crime scenes had been. It wasn't mediated, they'd had to rush things...

The sound of more screaming shook Roda out of her musing in time to see the redhead turn her gun, drunkenly, on two of the innocent bystanders she'd knocked to the ground. Where was Jack, he must have seen the commotion, heard it at least? She'd have to buy some time for him to catch up. Without hesitating, Roda threw a punch, sending the alien staggering into the body of her victim, gun bouncing across the floor. Roda turned her head for just a second to pull the terrified couple to their feet and shove them towards the door.

“Get out of here! Now!”

They didn't need telling twice, nor did the rest of the crowd. Roda swore, hoping that the gunshot hadn't been heard on the floor above. There didn't seem to be any sort of alarm going off, and the bouncers hadn't made their way through the crowd yet, hopefully she had the killer isolated. She kept her gun pointed at the woman in a one-handed grip, her eyes narrowed. For the first time she realised that the stairwell was well lit, not just from the strobe lights from the main room of the club, but by ridiculous roof-to-floor windows that stretched the height of the stairs on both sides. The glass was tinted red, not dissimilar to Roda's console room. She shook her head once more and turned her attention back to the killer.

“Put your hands in the air, damn it. This is not the day for you to get on my bad side.” The woman swayed, snorting with derision as she made to crouch down. “Reach for the gun, and I shoot. Jack,” taking a deep breath, Roda remembered she had bluetooth, “I'm in the stairwell, second floor!”

Roda should have known better than to talk in clichés, or to forget that not all drunks were the same. Some aliens got drunk faster, or slower, than humans, for example. Some were high-functioning alcoholics. Sometimes, a person could just push through the alcoholic if they were determined enough. She knew the MO of the alien standing in front of her. Later on, all she'd be able to say about the whole night, every aspect of it, was that she should have known better.

The metamorph threw the first punch while she was distracted. Roda twisted, forced to lower her gun arm to deflect the blow from her face. She grabbed the alien's wrist and pulled, causing her opponent to lose her balance and gasp as their hip collided with the end of the banister. As she stumbled the alien kicked out; whether intentionally or instinctively, Roda wasn't sure. Roda was too close, her ankle hooked, and as she fell backwards she felt the window frame behind her break her fall, the glass shattering around her.

She caught herself just in time, letting out a held breath. That was too close. Rassilon, but had that really taken the breath out of her. The woman hadn't looked that strong. Her opponent took advantage of Roda's near fall to reach for her gun, dropping to her knees and searching around the puddle of blood to get a grip on the slippery weapon. Roda stamped down, hard, and the woman screamed as she pulled her bruised hand away. Roda tried to restrain her, trying to avoid damaging the poor victim's corpse any further. She lost track of what she was doing in the ensuing scuffle, the little aches that would surely be bruises later on, and by the time they both scrambled to their feet, a few metres apart, they were back where they started, both panting heavily. Roda trained her revolver, careful to stand between the alien and her chance of regaining her own weapon.

“For Rassilon's sake, hands in the-!”

There had been an interview in a magazine she'd read once, Gwen had left it lying around, where the victim of a stabbing hadn't noticed they'd been stabbed at first. It had, they'd claimed in their interview, felt more like being punched, hard, in the stomach. It wasn't until they'd fought off their attacker and someone had offered to call for an ambulance that they'd even noticed the blood. At the time, Roda had found that hard to believe; she'd been shot before, and she'd felt that perfectly well, thank you very much. At least from a Time Lord's perspective, the idea seemed laughable. But as she glanced briefly down, certain she'd feel that punch to her sternum later, she saw the hilt of the knife in her chest and suddenly wanted to throw up.

Her eyes widening, she looked from the knife to the metamorph standing in front of her, who if anything, seemed just as surprised that she'd managed to successfully stab her opponent as Roda was to realise she'd been carrying a knife at all. The knife was lodged in her chest up to the hilt, but it didn't seem too deep. Her breathing was... more or less okay, and though her ribs ached, nothing seemed broken. Cracked, maybe. Damn it, where was Jack... Had he gone out the door, gone the wrong way, hoping to find the killer there? Why hadn't he answered when she'd been shouting down the headset? Absently, Roda reached for the earpiece, finding – nothing. It must have fallen off in the fight, or broken.

She realised with a start that she was on her own.

Perhaps she shouldn't have moved so fast. She blinked, once and long, then took a deep breath and tipped her head to one side. The alien practically beamed.

“Had enough, bitch?”

Roda didn't even grace the woman with an answer. She struck out with the barrel of her revolver, catching the unsuspecting alien squarely across the nose as she kept one hand on the knife. With a start of satisfaction she heard something snap, followed by a yell of pain. She didn't hesitate as the alien clutched her nose to her face with a string of obscenities, twisting her arm and elbowing the woman, as hard as she could, in the chest. The alien stumbled, winded, but reached out with one hand, jarring the knife still lodged in Roda's chest. The metamorph fumbled for a grip on the knife, pulling it out sharply and as Roda blinked back the sudden white, hot pain, the alien stabbed at her again.

Roda took a step backwards, narrowly dodging the knife but this time, the window didn't break her fall. The frame struck her shoulder, spinning her around, and even as Roda reached out, trying to catch hold of the windowsill or the frame or anything, the ground rose up to meet her. Then everything went black.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions," said Atticus, "but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."_  
>  \- Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

If there'd ever been a time when waking up had been more painful, Roda wasn't sure she could think of it.

She opened her eyes slowly, feeling as though her head was full of glue and her chest full of nails. Her eyes didn't want to open, almost couldn't. When they did, the world seemed blurry and dark, and it took her a few moments to understand why she was looking up at the sky. As recognition dawned and sensation returned, she almost wished that she hadn't woken up at all.

Fallen out the window... Roda could barely comprehend it. One moment she'd been scrambling with the killer, all but praying for Jack to turn up and the next there'd been nothing beneath her feet. It had been an unpleasant sensation, free-fall, and a short one. Perhaps it would have been a relaxing one, if it had lasted for longer; falling and falling and falling, feeling... nothing. It seemed as though it had been hours ago, but she was alone in the field of shattered glass and blood and tarmac, and Rassilon only knew what else was on the ground of a night club car park. Too much time couldn't have passed.

The last thing she'd seen was the alien turning away from the stairwell as though nothing had happened.

Memories rushed back with agonising pain; at least they took her mind off Gallifrey. Stepping back, revolver trained on the unarmed con, all the cards in her hand. And then she'd looked down and seen the knife in her chest, the knife that was no longer there. She was going to lose blood faster now, with nothing to plug the hole or staunch the bleeding. Absently, she pressed the palm of her hand against the wound and her mind recoiled in pain.

Black dots blinked in front of her eyes, and Roda wondered if she'd briefly lost consciousness again. She scrunched her face and then opened her eyes wide, sitting upright with a whine. The ribs she'd thought had cracked earlier in the fight were definitely now broken, and more were cracked. With a grimace, she realised that she could feel one of the ribs, sickeningly pressing against her skin. But it wasn't just the broken ribs that seemed off. Both her hearts were beating erratically, but the way that her chest was rising and falling didn't seem right, and each breath felt... wet. Like drowning. She coughed, and when her hand came away red, her fears were confirmed.

She assessed the situation. Four of her ribs were broken, and more were cracked and bruised. There was a hole in her chest; against all odds, the knife had missed anything important. She dreaded to think what would have happened had she fallen out the window face-first. And then there was the blood loss, at least a pint, at her estimate. Her shoulder felt sprained, badly, maybe even broken and she wondered if it had taken her fall. What worried her the most was that one of her lungs had been punctured, and was losing air fast... It could have been worse. She wasn't sure how right now, though.

Roda knew that with her lungs filling up with fluid, she really should have stayed on the ground and waited for Jack or Michael to find her. But if she did, they'd have to go after the alien another day. Jack would be disappointed, but he was a good man, not about to begrudge a fallen friend medical help even if it did mean solving a case. Perhaps they'd find the woman without her, but Roda didn't have high hopes. Now that the alien knew someone was on their trail, they'd be more secretive. By the Skaro degradations, she was tired, and angry, and in so much pain, and this would end tonight. If she was going to regenerate anyway, she wanted to go down fighting.

Rolling onto her knees was almost too much for Roda to handle, and she hissed in air through her teeth. She couldn't afford to lose any more blood carelessly. Her coat was too large to be of any use, and she shrugged it off quickly, the pain starting becoming too extreme to register properly. She fumbled with the buckle on her holster, cursing when she found her revolver missing. A quick look around found it scattered across the ground; it must have bounced away when she fell. She tore a strip from one sleeve of her shirt, tightly folded it, and pressed it to the knife wound. The holster, refastened over her chest and tightened – with a grimace – held it in place passably well, and she pulled her coat back over her shoulders. It wasn't how she liked to wear the holster, but she wasn't in a position to complain about comfort.

Steeling herself, Roda pushed herself to her feet and started to walk, barely conscious of her shout of pain. She had to find Jack, or Michael; the SUV had to be parked somewhere nearby, she vaguely recalled seeing it earlier. Yes... if she found Michael there'd be a first aid kit and an intercom to call Jack and tell him who to look for. 

But as she stumbled around the corner the sight of the crowd of club-goers stopped her short. There were people milling outside, some distressed and confused, others angry and joking that their night out had been cut short. Roda could see bouncers trying to force their way inside and through ears that felt full of cotton wool, she could just hear the sound of sirens. That was one relief, at least. There would be less people to retcon. Roda laughed, bitterly. Few of the club-goers seemed to know that there'd been a murder. Mass hysteria had clearly flooded everyone down the stairs and out the door. The sounds of music and dancing from the top six floors were evidence that everyone below the scene was blissfully ignorant.

The alien – alive, or dead – was nowhere to be seen. 

She was looking for another way around that wouldn't raise suspicion when she spotted Jack, standing a little to the side with a vicious scowl on his face. He had a bruise forming under one eye, and Roda wondered what scuffles he'd been involved in himself. He was snapping something into his bluetooth, apparently not satisfied with the answer, and checking his vortex manipulator for something, his own gun slung lazily into its holster.

Hiding her holster with her coat she half-strode-half-limped over to him, her face growing more pale and drawn with every step. She just had to keep Jack in the dark a little longer, and maybe they'd manage to track this killer down before she passed out after all. She wanted to do one damn thing right tonight, and then she wanted to sleep. Jack looked up when she approached, surprised.

“Where the hell've you been?”

“Lost my earpiece, broke it off – yes, I know, Lidewij is going to kill me.” Roda paused. “So I took the back door.”

“...What?”

“The Roda-shaped one in the second storey window.”

Roda ran her blood-stained palm through her hair, trying to slow her breathing; she didn't want to have to switch to respiratory bypass until she had to. Jack spoke something down his mic that Roda didn't catch and let go of the wrist with the vortex manipulator, folding both arms across his chest and giving Roda his best 'what's going on?' raised eyebrow. Roda took a deep breath, visibly grimaced from the pain, and started talking all in one breath before Jack could comment.

“I found the killer, she's probably in the crowd somewhere.”

Roda swung out her good arm to emphasis her point, and immediately regretted it, staggering on the spot as Jack turned his back to follow her gesture. Roda too scanned the crowds again, facing away from the eerily empty parking lot and squinting into the glow from the neon lights over Cloud 9's entrance.

“Tall, redhead, visibly female, out of place clothing. Oh,” Roda smirked, “and her nose is broken.” 

“What about the victim?”

“It's too late, Ja-” Agitatedly, Roda's voice broke, and she started to cough, spluttering. Fresh blood spotted her hand as she pulled it away and Jack finally narrowed his eyes, tearing his gaze away from the club. “Already dead. Second floor-” she coughed again, “stairwell. We should get to the SUV,” Roda all but thumped Jack in the shoulder, trying to push him towards the car as she used him for support and wiped her mouth, “in case they're on the move already.”

“Ro,” Jack turned back to look Roda in the eye, wrapping one arm around her waist almost intimately, the killer forgotten. “What happened? He wiped her eyebrow with his thumb. “You're bleed-”

Once more, Roda spotted the alien too late. The redhead had emerged from the crowds and around the corner of the building seemingly out of nowhere, making her way to the car park with one hand clutching her broken nose. Roda recalled that she'd seen an alleyway down the back, where Michael was parked, and it was probably not the only way for someone to sneak away from the scene of the crime while avoiding the bouncers and the police. There was a fence that could be jumped easily enough, too. But the alien had seen them before Roda had seen her, and she'd picked up her gun.

The bullet that had caught Jack squarely between the eyes had narrowly missed Roda. She couldn't help but wonder who it was aimed at, and how many times they'd both taken hits meant for the other one. As she broke Jack's fall, not without difficulty, Roda drew her revolver and fired one-handedly, barely caring who might be in pursuit. It was clumsy, and she missed, too, her injury affecting her aim, but with both parties armed, they were at a stalemate. Who could shoot faster, and how long did they have until someone investigated the gun shot?

“I thought I'd killed you!”

“No,” Roda bared her teeth, “it just really fucking hurt.”

She started walking slowly backwards, teasing and leading the alien away from the crowd, and from Jack. It didn't take much effort to move as though she was on the defence, her torso slick with blood. She watched as the alien stepped over Jack's body and dropped to the ground just in time to avoid the return fire. The knife, at least, was nowhere to be seen.

“You're lucky, I'll give you that.” The alien shook her head, smirking. Both women kept walking slowly, eyes locked. “How the hell did you survive that fall?”

Roda's hand ghosted to her side, feeling the caving in of her chest. White dots danced in front of her eyes. She clenched her fists, and then wrapped both hands around her revolver, knuckles pale and shaking.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“You just...” Rassilon, but she was more out of breath than she realised. Whatever Michael had in the first aid kit in the SUV, it wasn't going to be enough, and she needed enough air to get back to the Hub. Catching her breath, Roda went on, “killed my friend. I don't think you realise how stupid a mistake that was.”

“You broke my nose.”

The redhead pouted. Roda wondered if she was sobering up at all. Her eyes narrowed, her voice overly calm. 

“And you stabbed me.”

“Yes...” At that the alien... sighed? Roda frowned, confused. The look she got in return was almost one of begrudged pity, as the alien lowered her gun to gesture broadly with both arms. “What does it matter, he's just a human. All you humans are the same. Selfish, xenophobic and vain.”

“So that gives you the right to kill them?”

“I'd say so.” The alien shrugged. “He's, what... the ninth?”

Roda shrugged back, exaggeratedly. She knew exactly how many people the woman had killed. She knew their faces, their ages.. she'd seen the state of their corpses; one's throat slit by a fishing hook, another burned so badly they'd had to confirm their identity with dental records. The woman in front of her seemed so naïve, wearing a pretty face, behaving civilly. She didn't seem capable of graphic murder, of pushing Roda out a window and shooting Jack in the head. But killers came in all shapes and sizes. Male, female, time Lord or alien, organicand metallic, and Roda would not be fooled again.

“Tenth,” the alien hadn't noticed the concentration on Roda's face, “that you know of, anyway. No one's going to stop me, no one's even tried.”

“That was before Torchwoo-”

“Hey, you!”

The 'calm' couldn't last. Twenty first century humans couldn't help but rubberneck. Roda stared with horror as one of the bouncers – the one from before that Jack had flirted with, 'Tiger' – rounded the corner, taser in hand. Roda wasn't sure what to think; would the bouncer just get in the way, another liability, or could he help her out until Jack came back to life? And if he did, how would he handle the shock? It was always a 50-50 thing. He had handcuffs, though, and Roda's were still in her TARDIS. She just had to keep him from getting shot...

“Stay where you are!”

Roda and the alien spoke at the same time, Roda reaching out one hand in warning and the alien spinning around to face him, startled. In a second the alien's gun was drawn again, and the man's eyes widened in fear. This wasn't the sort of aggression he was used to, Roda would wager. Thankfully, the man raised his hands in surrender, and walked to stand beside Roda as the alien gestured with the barrel of her gun. 

“You're kidding right?” Her gun trained on the bouncer and Roda's on her, the alien started talking again. She looked between Roda and Tiger, her expression equal parts disdain and disbelief. Roda risked a sideways glance at Jack, her teeth clenched. “You're Torchwood? The great Torchwood, the two of you?”

“I'm not.”

Roda stared at the bouncer, who cleared his throat with a slight reddening of the ears.

“He's...” she blinked and shook her head. “Not.”

“But your friend on the ground was, right?” The alien wiped one hand over her eyes, starting to laugh. Once she started, she hardly seemed about to stop. But she was distracted, and Roda jerked her head towards Jack, urging the bouncer to check on him. She was just going to have to hope that if Jack suddenly sat up, the man would handle it. “Jeez, you guys put me in witness protection, look where it got you! How the mighty have fallen...!”

Roda winced, both from pain, and second hand embarrassment. Keep her talking. Just... keep her talking. That was all she had to do. But it was the same story, day in, day out. Humans hating aliens, aliens hating humans, people hating people... she could see why it got to the Doctor, sometimes.

“What do you have against humans?”

“You hate us. You hate us all. Every single one of you.”

Roda snorted. “Go home, you're drunk.”

“Every one of the people I killed? Xenophobic, entitled bastards, ranting day in, day out, about how aliens are going to ruin the world,” Roda raised an eyebrow, “the next big stink since homosexuality, and none of them had the guts to do anything from the other side of their screen-names.”

Roda narrowed her eyes. “The guts for what?”

“Murdering the enemy. But I did. You want to get rid of all the people who look a bit different and have your planet all to yourself again. You don't even like your own people, the gays, the ones with darker skin...” The alien lowered her gun to count things off on the ends of her fingers. “You think you're so wonderful, so highly evolved but you know what? It's bigotry, that's what it is. You make me sick. I'm just weeding out the worst of the crop.”

“Humans are teddy bears compared to some of the people I used to know...”

“Yeah, and I'm the madonna.”

“And killing everyone who's been mean to you on the internet makes you a loving saint?”

Despite herself, Roda bared her teeth, almost growling. It was the 'Robin Hood' in her, the almost debilitating need to defend the underdog. She'd fought dictators – the Master amongst them – and robbed from the rich, to feed the poor. Skaro, she was even on the run from the Shadow Proclamation and the Time Agency for similar crimes that she hadn't even committed yet. Or so she'd always assumed; after all, the Time Agency had called her Redjay before she had called herself by the name. The day she'd first met Jack...

But it wasn't the theft and fighting that was important, it was helping people, in her own way that was so very different to the Doctor's. According to this killer, she'd come to Torchwood for help, and they'd willingly given it. To have it thrown so violently back in their faces, to know they'd been taken advantage of, just fuelled Roda's anger. She could feel her breathing grow more heavy, and she bit down on her cheek to stop the pain.

“I lost my planet and my good looks, I come here,” she snorted, flicking her hair, “make myself look like you people, try to start a life again, and you still aren't happy.”

“You're a chameleon.” 

Finally, she slipped up. Every monologuing villain did.

The alien absently touched her right arm, and Roda bit her tongue to stop from smirking. They'd learned about chameleons, back in the Prydonian Academy, in their lessons about regeneration. Oddly enough, the earth lizards had never come up. But she remembered, clearly, the disdain in her professor's voice when he'd explained that they had to use special genetically linked armbands to mimic the appearance of whoever wore the other one. And like all teenagers, she'd been especially interested to learn that if the armband was removed, they'd be reduced to nothing but a puddle of protoplasm..

A plan starting to form at last, Roda inched to the side, crouching down as though to check on Jack's body. Hiding his fear well, Tiger moved silently out of the way, raising his hands above his head as the chameleon narrowed her eyes. That her victims weren't begging for their lives was probably starting to annoy her; she was getting restless. Roda didn't take her gaze off her for a second, placing one palm on Jack without even looking. She could feel his chest rising and falling, and silently breathed a sigh of relief. He might have been immortal, but there was still that little terrifying thought every time that this time, he might not be.

She pushed Jack's sweat-soaked fringe out of his face absently, focusing on his ear-piece and raising her voice. As she straightened up and continued talking, holding her side, she sure as Skaro hoped Lidewij could hear her.

Tiger got there first.

“What's a chameleon?”

The chameleon's scowl deepened, “A noble race of the planet Kʼamʻlʻʼán!”

“Shapeshifting aliens,” added Roda, hastily. She swallowed down a wave of nausea before adding: “Their planet got blown up, long story short they lost their faces and identities and started to steal them from other alien races. They miniaturise their victims, keep them hidden.” She caught her breath, her face scrunched up in pain. She was talking slow, moving slow. Everything felt as though it was happening through a thick jelly. “Can't have two of themselves running around...” She tilted her head to one side and addressed the chameleon. “Whose face are you wearing? Where are you keeping them?”

“Oh, this one's been a missing person for years now, living on the street. The dead one's cousin. She won't even be missed, why does it matter?”

“'Maybe it doesn't.” Roda shrugged. “A killer's a killer, no matter what planet they're from. Trust me-” She coughed, and winced in pain, “it takes one to know one. I'm not human and you know what?” Despite herself, Roda managed a smirk, and something that was almost a laugh. “My friend isn't either. So I'm going to ask you one more time, while my friend at the end of the phone looks through our system for a chameleon. Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your head before the police get here, or go to Skaro.”

The woman sneered, stumbling a little. Her finger tightened just a little too tightly for comfort on the trigger. One twitch, and Roda didn't think she could out shoot her. Not in her current condition. She was running on little more than adrenaline and pure regenerative energy. Jack had to be alive again by now; in fact, her entire plan, what there was of one anyway, rode on it.

“Was that supposed to scare me?”

“No. It was supposed to keep you distracted while the 'other half of Torchwood' reloaded his gun.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I submit to you that if a man hasn't discovered something he will die for, he isn't fit to live."_  
>  \- Martin Luther King Jr

Roda had to hand it to Jack; he knew how to make an entrance. She had no idea how long he'd been alive for – he'd perfected the art of playing dead, after all – but she'd had a feeling in her gut that he would be there for her. Or perhaps that feeling was internal bleeding – right now, it was hard to tell. Even in the face of finding a hand to play once more the world was still a dizzying and nauseating place to be right now. At least if she fell Jack could take up the mantle.

If nothing else, the chameleon was just as confused as Roda was pained, if not more. Frightened, too, if Roda was any judge of things; she supposed this was certainly the first time that one of her victims had ever moved again, let alone shot at her. Her arm wobbled for the first time all night as the blood drained from her stolen face, as Jack – from the ground – squinted up at the alien in the faint glow from the club and fired, one, two shots in her direction. The first was off by inches but the second grazed the woman's arm, and she eventually broke out of her shock with a screech of pain.

Roda took advantage of the situation to fire a shot herself, as the bouncer scrambled back in alarm, taser held in a white-knuckled grip between both hands. She tried to aim one-handed for the alien but found that as she pulled the trigger the whole world felt off its axis. As Roda stumbled, the scene in front of her melting like a Dali masterpiece, her shot went wide and buried itself in the nearest car. She tried to regain her balance, but the next thing she knew someone's bullet had caught her in the leg and her body had given up. She hit the ground with a thud, not even bothering to check on the wound. It wasn't as though it made much difference anymore.

Her face pressed into the tarmac, too tired to push herself back to her feet, Roda only saw half of what was going on. She saw 'Tiger', apparently over his shock, all but tackling the alien and trying to get the weapon out of her hands. She felt rather than saw Jack step right over her, his soldier face on, his handgun braced in both hands as he shouted “Get out of the way!” at the bouncer, clearly itching to shoot.

He'd have heard Roda's whole conversation, she supposed, and decided to shoot now, and ask questions never. Usually she would have argued that everyone deserved a chance but right now she had no sympathy left for the bitch. She heard gunshot and wondered how the hell no one had come to investigate the noise, yet.

It wasn't until she heard Jack grunting in pain that Roda found the strength to pull herself up onto one elbow. Worry about him overrode her self pity long enough to appraise the situation. He was holding his arm funny as though he'd been shot, but it didn't seem to be anything serious. There was a new tear in his greatcoat but there wasn't any fresh blood from what she could see; not that it was easy to tell. And besides, he was still aiming his gun at the alien, who had one arm around the bouncer's neck.

There wasn't any more time to think, though Roda vaguely wished she had the presence of mind to say something witty. She supposed she would have to make do with her last line so far as famous last words went. They could have been worse, after all.

Her first shot caught the alien in the knee, the second went wild, and the third went right through her thigh as the woman went down and Roda ran out of bullets. She let her revolver slide out of her fingers and rested her head on the ground once more, groaning, as the alien screamed and swore in pain, both hands pressed against her leg as though somehow, she could put the blood back inside of her. An eye for an eye, a knee for a knee. Roda rather felt she knew the feeling right now. 'Tiger' fell back, clasping his throat as he coughed and choked and got the most of his breath back, and without any further preamble, or wit, or pause, Jack emptied his gun into the killer's head and finally, it was over.

All three of the people left alive caught their breath for a couple of seconds, the bouncer sat on the ground and Jack panting over the body of his kill. And then as her friend and lover's eyes finally settled on her, all triumph seeped out of Jack's face and he all but power slid to his knees beside her, pulling her head into his lap and snapping at 'Tiger'.

“Do you have a mobile?!”

“I-” As the adrenaline started to leave him the man stared at Roda's broken body, stammering. “Ye- yeah.”

“Good. Call 999. Get the police, and find your boss. Tell him Torchwood will be in touch.”

“Wh-what about an ambulance?”

“Go!”

As the bouncer rounded the corner like the devil himself was on his back – probably glad to finally get out of the insane situation he had been thrust into – Jack pressed his hand to his earpiece, “Damn it Michael, we need back-up!”, and started to ease off Roda's coat. As she hissed in pain, he replied with absent-minded soothing noises, pushing her hair out of her eyes and kissing her on the forehead.

When he'd finally gotten her coat off and untied her holster, Jack's eyes widened in horror. Roda's chest was gaunt, almost collapsed, and she doubted there was very much air left in her lungs at all. From the way that every slight breath she managed to hitch in burned, it had probably been collapsed since her fall. Jack touched her side and his hand came away saturated with blood. Without apologising, he tore open the fabric of the shirt where it was already ripped and pressed his hand to the knife wound as he talked.

“You need to stop wearing red shirts, Roda.”

Jack laughed awkwardly. His words were already dim to Roda's ears, but that he was only joking in an attempt to diffuse the situation was clear. He probably thought she'd regenerate and everything would be fine. It wouldn't be the first regeneration she'd gone through since meeting him, and he'd known three Doctors and three Seekers. It wouldn't be long before things returned to normal again. She clung to his shirt, trying desperately to suck in air, feeling as though her lungs were on fire. Respiratory bypass did nothing – there was too much blood, she was drowning all over again.

“Or at least tell me when you're bleeding profusely.”

“I got stabbed.” Roda balled her hand into Jack's shirt to balance herself, trying to sit up, but Jack gently held her down.

“I noticed.”

“The blood's'not just – mine –” Roda choked, her grip loosening on Jack's shirt for a moment. He grabbed her arm hurriedly, holding her up and pulling her against him, his voice soft.

“Ssh.”

“Don't – ssh me.”

“Michael,” Jack hissed into the microphone, gently rearranging Roda to listen to her hearts. She grimaced in pain once more, finding the strength to weakly hug him back. “Where the hell are you?”

Roda could just make out Michael's voice, static and muffled through Jack's earpiece, before Jack spoke again.

“We need a medic, bring your kit.” Another pause. “If you can't get through then name-drop Torchwood, damn it.”

“Jack.”

Roda closed her eyes, trying to filter out Jack's words, to just hear his voice. She could feel relief making her lazy; she didn't care to fight anymore. Jack was as calm as he was for her sake, she was sure. There was nothing about tonight that was calm. Everything had been loud, chaotic, from the Doctor and Gallifrey, to boring old Earth and Torchwood. She was running out of time, and she didn't know what to do. At least now she didn't have to worry about 'home'; she was beyond medical help, surely.

She coughed, gasped in pain, ignored the cloud of regenerative energy in front of her face. Warm and yellow and faintly mocking. She would not give in to the voice in her head cursing her own stupidity! Her TARDIS, her Zero Room – that was what she needed. She wasn't entirely beyond help. But how was she supposed to get there? It was too far to walk, or be carried.

A plan began to form. A reckless one, that was bound to fail, but even having a plan at all gave her the strength to try. Perhaps there was somewhere else she could go...

“S'bit – late – now.”

Mustering all the strength that she could, Roda grabbed the lapels of Jack's shirt with both hands and pulled his mouth against hers, shutting him up. Jack started, trying to break apart for Roda's safety but she slipped one hand to the back of his neck. Her grip was shaky but she didn't give in; she smudged his collar with blood, holding him there and eventually Jack gave in. Placing one hand in the small of Roda's back he held her close, returning the kiss just as passionately as Roda longed to have started it. For a moment, it was as though she wasn't dying at all. They were just sharing a kiss more publicly than was usual of either of them; neither typically the sort for public displays of their affection. But with her spare arm, Roda stretched just far enough to unbutton the vortex manipulator on Jack's wrist, biting his bottom lip to distract him as she did so.

As they both withdrew, Jack panting and Roda turning deathly pale, she met Jack's gaze, touched his cheek, and slumped back. She gripped the vortex manipulator tight, hiding it behind her and typing in a memorised set of coordinates on auto-pilot. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a blur of green round the corner of the building, approaching at a sprint - Michael... better late than never. He had always been a fast one, but from what she'd heard down Jack's radio, he must have been caught up by the crowds.

She had to do it now. Michael was a perfectly good medic, and in any other situation she would have trusted him with her life – Jack, too – but a Time Lord problem needed Time Lord technology. Loath though she was to admit it...

“M' – sorry.”

She drew her hand forward again, meeting Jack's gaze. He blinked, grabbing his wrist as recognition dawned on him.

“Wait, Roda-!”

Roda closed her eyes, and pressed the domed button in the middle of the wrist strap.

In front of Jack's eyes... Roda vanished.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Tracking down alien life on Earth, arming the human race against the future. The twenty-first century is when everything changes. And you gotta be ready."_  
>  \- Captain Jack Harkness

Jack had never liked 'clean up'. It wasn't laziness, far from it. Jack barely needed to sleep these days and honestly, it wasn't as though he could get a good night's sleep if he tried anyway. If there was a task that needed done and no one else to put to it, then Jack would keep going until it was done. Often Roda helped. Had helped. But there were times when he seriously missed the Twins; they'd streamlined and improved Torchwood to the point where they could almost have run it on their own, were it not for the field work side of things. No, Jack could handle clean up – he could even handle the paperwork – but the adrenaline crash, and all the pent up thoughts that came with it... those he didn't like.

Today was worse than usual, not from a technical standpoint – 'Tiger' had managed to cordon off Cloud 9 until their police liaison had showed his sorry face, and Michael was doing most of the heavy lifting – but from an emotional one. They'd solved their crime and brought down the killer but at what price? He had no idea whether Roda was dead or alive. But from the last words that she had said to him, he was almost inclined to believe she'd acted like a cat; she'd gone off and found a quiet place to end her life. He wanted to chase after her, to try and find her and pray that the feeling in his gut was wrong but he'd gotten far on trusting his gut. Even if he could find her, he didn't think he wanted to know the truth.

It wasn't as though he had to stay in the hub, not really. The work could... probably wait, and Lidewij could probably do the paperwork. In light of what had happened, she'd managed to get a couple of days out of work; she was a valuable enough employee at the university that she could probably have asked for anything. Michael was certainly no use, the poor man was in shock. Not only had it been quite some time since they'd lost an operative to 'an act of Torchwood' (and before Michael's time, at that) but he was having to deal with the idea that Time Lords were mortal. Silurians, of course, knew Roda's species well, and Michael had never truly dropped that little hint of idol worship in his voice. 

Roda and Michael had been close friends in the last few years, too. Lidewij, too, but somewhat less so; even though he and Roda were by far Torchwood's oldest operative, Lidewij had seemed it, with her physical age and certain aloofness that only older women ever had. They'd only spoken when at work and she didn't tend to socialise with the rest of them. Michael on the other hand had come out of his shell when Roda had insisted he have a couple of drinks with her and Jack one night. She'd fervently defended him from anyone who so much as looked at him funny, and it had given him the drive to smile a little. He and Roda had kissed, drunkenly, at last year's Christmas party. Never was never going to have come of that, but... Michael was taking things hard, and Jack had to keep a straight face at least until he could be alone.

The whole mess at Cloud 9 was going to take a while to clean up properly. The murder had been rather decidedly public, after all, and at this point Jack had resigned himself to the fact that retcon wasn't going to cut it. There were just too many people and they'd never find all the witnesses, not after a night on the club. There were people who would probably chalk it up to a bad trip, a publicity stunt or alien propaganda, and they would slow the rise of a scandal. Their police liaison, too, though moronically slow to make the scene was doing a damn good job of keeping the press off of their necks. No, the complicated part was the impact that this was going to have on Torchwood's approach to human-alien relations.

They'd been far too trusting in the past, and that was going to have to change. On the grounds that no one else was, they'd given a lot of people who came to them for help the benefit of the doubt. Roda had been insistent. Jack thought they'd been keeping pretty good tabs on people but this was a lesson in exactly how the system could be abused. And to think that the death of its firmest advocate was the cause... yes, this might have been the start of a change for the better on earth, but this put the whole transformation a good few steps backwards. They would have to hunt down everyone they had ever offered protection to, interview them... it would take very long time.

Damn it, the more Jack thought about what needed done and how little he could do right now, the more he just wanted to speak to someone. The Seeker would have to be told, after all, or at least warned; Jack struggled to remind himself that she might still have regenerated and was just hiding out somewhere while she recovered. He'd have to find some way to contact the Doctor, too, and he supposed he would have to track down that kid she'd sort of adopted, too, and have someone – probably the Seeker – deal with the legal ramifications of that. It didn't quite seem real. It couldn't be. Losing the Seeker to his journeys and now potentially losing Roda...? She was a Time Lord; she should have outlasted almost all of them. If she hadn't.

He ran a hand through his hair and picked up the manila folder next to him, thumbing through sheets of paper until he found the information on the dead chameleon now cooling in the morgue. At least she – presumably she was a she – was dead now. That, at least, was one less thing to worry about. Cardiff could rest easy – not that it hadn't already – with one less killer on the streets. Jack supposed you had to take the little victories in a life like this. 

Win some battles, and eventually you'll win the war.


End file.
